W R I T T E N · W OR K

P O E T R Y

1964

by Robert Ranieri, 1964

 

 

                             At the heights of the world              She
                             is the sign from God                         that strikes
                             from head to heart                            a meteor,
                             the seed                              a stigmata maker,
                            
                             that semaphores in the wild subconscious
                             with graphs gulls make in air.
                             She is cinnamon that incites sinews of war,
                             yet the demon is mesmerized,
                             presumptuous Mars a Harlequin made,
                             a balancing egg on a wall, the colossus toppled
                             is a doll.

                             In miles of dust I travel dark on a catafalque
                             of reverie to emphasize evil spawned in
                             subways.
                             Now say goodbye to the capital I
                             in the stomach of the Capitoline Wolf,
                             a Cupid with cancelled eyes.
                             Having seen Diana once I'm Actaeon 
                             with opened guts, meat on a table,
                             and moon cast predictions on my entrails,
                             thistles on thresholds, bile in a flower,
                             the woe of midnight blood.

                             But my albatross is a wish,
                             and Harlequin a Pan, who vents his spleen
                             on gabardine and knic -nac avenues,
                             and dances on nickles and dimes,
                             for that sexy lass of plexiglass
                             with eyes like dollar signs.

                             Soon, if the perfect eye opens,
                             a bird will whistle in the clear,
                             and downwind the cross pollination
                             of skipping bee combinations.


 

 

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LAR